ONE
P
eople have all sorts of ideas about what they’d do if it happened to them.
They’d tell their friends. They’d make that call. They’d
leave. They certainly wouldn’t continue on like normal, banging
out personal essays or temping at whatever online mag needed a
freelance editor for the day.
They’d tell their family (assuming
they still had family in their lives to tell), they’d keep themselves
busy (pottery class! political campaigns! yoga!). They’d heal, and
they’d move on, and they’d rebuild their lives.
That’s what I’d always thought, too.
The exit for Woodstock, New York, came into view, my eyes
fl itting nervously to the rearview mirror as I quickly pulled off the
ramp.
Suddenly, I was in the country, pastures and horses, run-
down schoolhouses, abandoned barns, and bucolic churches
sprinkled over the landscape: Rural Mad Libs. I found Shadow
Creek Road at the end of a particularly snakelike stretch. I turned,
so eager to get out of the car and get to step two of this plan that
I hardly slowed at all . . .
I slammed on the brakes as the deer froze, staring me down.
My body lurched forward; Dusty yelped as he thunked against
the side of his crate. My blood pumped heavy and fast, fl ushing
me with heat. I struggled to catch my breath as the doe’s eyes fl ashed at mine. What are you doing? What in God’s name do you
think you’re doing? She pranced away, the heft of her body disappearing into the tall grasses of the meadow, as quickly as she’d
come.
My throat burned hot, acid rising, and I rammed the car into
park. I jumped out and rushed to the passenger side, whipping
open the back door. “You okay, buddy?” I asked. Dusty licked my
hand, my erratic driving apparently not doing him too much
harm. “I’m sorry,” I said, attempting to swallow the bitterness in
the back of my mouth, nauseated at the realization that I was
unable to prevent my own dog from getting hurt.
I couldn’t bear
to lose him, too.
A car pulled up behind me, an old butter-yellow Mercedes. In
the air, the smell of fried food— Davis and I had once dreamed of
converting a diesel Mercedes to run on biodiesel, used cooking
oil, free from restaurants. A woman climbed out of the driver’s
side, graceful and lithe. Her golden hair shimmered in the sunlight, falling down her back, stick straight. Her cheekbones were
high, her boobs perky, and her arms annoyingly taut. She wore
black spandex pants and a loose black tank over a hot- pink sports
bra— the kind of woman for whom “athleisure” was invented.
What did she want?
“You okay?” she asked, eyes scrunching up with concern. “Do
you need help?”
Her words made tears prick my eyes. I needed more help than
she could possibly know. Quickly, I shut the door as Dusty
whined. “It was just a deer,” I managed. “It surprised me, but I’m
fi ne.” Before she could say anything else, I was back in my car,
shifting into drive.
In the rearview mirror, I saw her, eyes locked straight ahead—
watching to make sure I was okay, or watching me? She was still
following when I reached the farmhouse, the one the agent had
told me to look out for. It was gorgeously decrepit, with red siding.
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