Could she have taken herself to a restaurant? Was there a friend she might have gone to visit? There had been one friend. There had been a book group. Her mother had gone a few times. Then she gave up because she said they were choosing books that were more Oprah than New Yorker . Miranda had a general idea where the hostess’s house was. For lack of a better idea, she went in that direction.
She drove for an hour down a series of roads that went from pavement to dirt and then back to pavement again. She knew the house was in a remote location. Her mother had commented about how hard it was to find. But everything around here was hard to find. Once Miranda found herself back on the paved road, she realized she’d simply driven in a large circle. She plunged forward again, this time looking for the small bed-and-breakfast her mother had mentioned as a marker. The light was fading. But finally Miranda saw the small R OOMS FOR R ENT sign in front of a multicolored house. She turned there. The pavement had seen better days. She dodged potholes that the flat, early-evening light made difficult to see. Then her car bumped across something more substantial in the road. Miranda pulled over to see what she’d crossed or maybe hit. She got out of the car and saw she had merely driven over some long-unused railroad tracks embedded in the pitted and patched asphalt. Just railroad tracks, she told herself. Nothing sinister. Nothing damaged.
She wasn’t ready to get back in the car. She felt stiff and sore from sitting so long with so much tension in her body. She pressed her hands into her lower back and stretched. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and looked around, hoping the fresh scent of the woods would soothe her. The lowering sun glinted off something across the road. Miranda tilted her head back and forth, trying to discern what it was. A car. A car partially jammed into the weeds and shrubbery, as if someone had stopped unexpectedly. She couldn’t tell if the car was simply parked or had hit a tree—the vegetation was too dense. Maybe a deer had jumped out in front of it. Or the driver had found something he or she had been looking for. Miranda took baby steps across the street. She might be the only person passing by this spot for hours. Even days. She had to see if someone needed help.
She peered around the trampled scrub. A dark-blue car. A Volvo. The light was low enough that it was difficult to see in the windows. Miranda stepped closer. There was no one in the driver’s seat. Or the passenger seat. Or the backseat. But there was a purse there, in the footwell on the passenger side. Not hidden. Easy for someone to steal. It took her a moment. The dark, smooth leather. The two rounded handles. The large gold clasp. They’d bought it together. Her mother had thought the hardware made it too showy. Miranda had encouraged her. Told her she deserved something nice like this, especially since she’d use it every day. Miranda had called it classy. Her mother had laughed. It had all happened such a long time ago. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother laugh. Bunny had been happy making that purchase. Once she was back home, she’d carefully filled the “pocketbook,” as she called it, with her red lipstick and travel tissues in one pocket, a comb and small bottles of hairspray and lotion in the other, a wallet and notebook in the main compartment. Which stood open now, a gaping mouth hollering at Miranda from inside the empty car.
What the hell? Miranda thought.
She started yelling, trying not to panic, calling her mother over and over, switching to “Mum,” and then “Barbara,” and then “Bunny,” and then back again. The silent woods seemed to mock her hysteria. She ran up and down the road, but there were no houses or driveways, no trails into the woods. Just the empty, weed-infested railroad bed.
Wait. Not so empty. There was someone lying on the tracks.
Miranda ran,
She drove for an hour down a series of roads that went from pavement to dirt and then back to pavement again. She knew the house was in a remote location. Her mother had commented about how hard it was to find. But everything around here was hard to find. Once Miranda found herself back on the paved road, she realized she’d simply driven in a large circle. She plunged forward again, this time looking for the small bed-and-breakfast her mother had mentioned as a marker. The light was fading. But finally Miranda saw the small R OOMS FOR R ENT sign in front of a multicolored house. She turned there. The pavement had seen better days. She dodged potholes that the flat, early-evening light made difficult to see. Then her car bumped across something more substantial in the road. Miranda pulled over to see what she’d crossed or maybe hit. She got out of the car and saw she had merely driven over some long-unused railroad tracks embedded in the pitted and patched asphalt. Just railroad tracks, she told herself. Nothing sinister. Nothing damaged.
She wasn’t ready to get back in the car. She felt stiff and sore from sitting so long with so much tension in her body. She pressed her hands into her lower back and stretched. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and looked around, hoping the fresh scent of the woods would soothe her. The lowering sun glinted off something across the road. Miranda tilted her head back and forth, trying to discern what it was. A car. A car partially jammed into the weeds and shrubbery, as if someone had stopped unexpectedly. She couldn’t tell if the car was simply parked or had hit a tree—the vegetation was too dense. Maybe a deer had jumped out in front of it. Or the driver had found something he or she had been looking for. Miranda took baby steps across the street. She might be the only person passing by this spot for hours. Even days. She had to see if someone needed help.
She peered around the trampled scrub. A dark-blue car. A Volvo. The light was low enough that it was difficult to see in the windows. Miranda stepped closer. There was no one in the driver’s seat. Or the passenger seat. Or the backseat. But there was a purse there, in the footwell on the passenger side. Not hidden. Easy for someone to steal. It took her a moment. The dark, smooth leather. The two rounded handles. The large gold clasp. They’d bought it together. Her mother had thought the hardware made it too showy. Miranda had encouraged her. Told her she deserved something nice like this, especially since she’d use it every day. Miranda had called it classy. Her mother had laughed. It had all happened such a long time ago. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother laugh. Bunny had been happy making that purchase. Once she was back home, she’d carefully filled the “pocketbook,” as she called it, with her red lipstick and travel tissues in one pocket, a comb and small bottles of hairspray and lotion in the other, a wallet and notebook in the main compartment. Which stood open now, a gaping mouth hollering at Miranda from inside the empty car.
What the hell? Miranda thought.
She started yelling, trying not to panic, calling her mother over and over, switching to “Mum,” and then “Barbara,” and then “Bunny,” and then back again. The silent woods seemed to mock her hysteria. She ran up and down the road, but there were no houses or driveways, no trails into the woods. Just the empty, weed-infested railroad bed.
Wait. Not so empty. There was someone lying on the tracks.
Miranda ran,
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